


Sunday Morning

by messrblack



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, can be muggle au or not idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:07:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23572831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messrblack/pseuds/messrblack
Summary: come have a chat on tumblr!
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Sunday Morning

**Author's Note:**

> [come have a chat on tumblr!](https://honeyhaze.tumblr.com/)

James tugs the duvet up and burrows closer to his wife, tucks his nose into the curtain of fiery hair resting against her neck. He breathes in deep and lets the soft patchouli scent soothe him back into a half-sleep. He stirs again when she does, when thunder cracks loud and rattles the window panes of their small cottage.

The sky outside is dark, overcast and grey. James aches for days like this; when the storm traps them in, not the rainfall but the flooded drive from their home that leads down to the main road. Some days they’ll shove their feet into pairs of old, worn rain boots and venture out, let the rain soak them through layers of coats and sweaters and they’ll laugh loudly with the thunderclaps surrounding them. But it’s much too cold for that today, with the rain falling in icy sheets and streaming over the foggy windows.

“Tea, Lils?” James asks. Lily nods, stretches onto her back and smiles. He loves that smile, the one she has whenever it rains. He is enamored with her, he hopes she knows. That she is so loved; revered. Exalted, even. He traces his thumb through the imprint the pillowcase left behind, down her temple and over the freckles dotting her cheeks, beneath the swell of her bottom lip. She presses a kiss to the pad of his finger, another to the soft underside of his wrist and it’s so tender he thinks he’s still in a dream, that he may die from it.

The floor creaks loud beneath his feet. Even in a storm, the house speaks around them; speaks of its age with groans and sighs. It may be old, cluttered still from the day they moved in, but it’s full of love. James can feel it in the floorboards and plaster on the walls, the way it wraps around his legs in the morning, drapes itself pleasantly through his ribs and settles somewhere deep during the night. It’s tied to his soul with the same thread that’s wound tight around Lily. The love was built-in, placed with every stone in the foundation and exists from families long before them, destined to linger years after they’re gone.

He’s come to realize that love is so much more than an emotion; that it’s frying eggs before the sun comes up when he could be sleeping in, or carrying the insects that have snuck inside in the summertime back to the garden before she can see, maybe even when he’s making tea and slices lemons thin because she wanted it that way once five years ago. He hopes Lily can feel that too, that while James may not be the best with words, his love is there written in the small things.

Crackling music fills the small space and when James turns, he sees Lily standing over the record player. Her hips sway with the beat and she spins, locks eyes with her husband. Her face scrunches up with her grin and James wonders if it’s at all possible to love someone more every day, feels it growing into something so great and tremendous he can’t breathe.

He passes her a cup and settles in on the sofa beside her, puts a plate of scones on the cushion between them. Lily wraps a hand loosely around his wrist, says, “thank you,” and there’s so much weight behind it, far beyond a cup of tea and a plate of scones, but he knows she isn’t good with words either. Soon, he’ll tell her how much he loves the rain, that he finds it energizing and wants to splash in the puddles like a child again. She’ll laugh along because she could never say no, not to him, and she’ll say that they can later, that they need to finish their tea while it’s still hot.

And perhaps James craves moments like this more than simple rainy days; quiet, when the record ends and he can soak in the soft sound of his wife breathing alongside the steady thrum of raindrops on the roof, the way she lets him rest his head on her lap when their cups are empty, the way she runs her fingers through his hair and her nails scratch softly against his scalp, lulling him to sleep. Later, they’ll bake bread together as they do every other Sunday, and they’ll ignore when the rain stops and the water submerging the drive recedes because they favor the feeling of safety and home wrapped around them so much more than anything beyond their four walls.


End file.
